


Forty Days (and nights)

by ShirleyAnn66



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, F/M, I Don't Even Know, canon compliant coarse language, mostly book canon, romantic comedy during End Game, some show canon mixed in as well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2019-09-13 23:28:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16901829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShirleyAnn66/pseuds/ShirleyAnn66
Summary: Jaime loves Cersei.  Brienne loves Renly.  Always have. Always will.  But Cersei and Renly are far in the past, and the night is dark and filled with terrors.A/N:This is a new one for me:  I'll be updating the summary because this fic is turning into something I hadn't intended.  Apparently, "PWP" in my world means "Porn?  What porn?"September 5/19:Posted a new chapter!!  Still no new summary but muses are starting to show faint signs of life...I'll take what I can get - LOL.





	1. Night One:  Brienne

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N1:** Title is from the song _Forty Days and Forty Nights_ by the Rankin Family. Other than the title, though, there's really no connection to the song.
> 
>  **A/N2:** Although the tone, mood, setting, and title are very similar, this fic is not a part of the He Wants (he wants) series. Hopefully that doesn’t mean I’m not very creative! O.O I just wanted to take a different, more in depth look at the same situation.

 

***/*/*/*/***

The night is dark and filled with terrors.

She’s heard those words far too many times since the Wall has fallen and the Others and their wights began endlessly throwing themselves against the battlements of Winterfell, an isolated and lonely island of life and light in a sea of darkness and creatures returned from the dead.

Brienne thanks the Seven for the dragons even if the sight of the wights’ flaming bodies means Jaime, sleeping next to her now, may cry out in the night once again.  She understands.  She has her own fears, her own dreams:  the man she loves dying in her arms, a monster’s teeth ripping the flesh from her cheek, a kind woman transformed into the embodiment of cruel vengeance, driven mad with grief and from her own death.  For Brienne, like Jaime, the dragons and the Others and the burning wights have simply joined her existing night terrors.

Brienne is there for Jaime when he wakes, screaming, just as he is there for her when she does the same.

Brienne shifts a little in the straw they’ve spread out over the hard floor, although Jaime’s arm, flung across her waist, has her more or less pinned in place.  Jaime mutters what she thinks is a protest that turns into an approving rumble when she stills.  She wishes she could sleep, but she only continues to stare out into the darkness of the crowded room.

They are not alone, in their dreams or their sleeping quarters here in one of the small halls scattered throughout the castle.  There is a fireplace at both ends of the room and there are soaring ceilings that disappear into black nothingness when what small fires they build die down.  It still feels like the last living creatures in the North have been packed into Winterfell until its walls bulge, sleeping cheek by jowl wherever there is room.  No one even stirs anymore when someone wakes, screaming, from their dreams.

The nights are endless, broken only by a few hours of sunlight that turns the black of night into a dull grey and is far too weak to warm even the tiniest portion of skin.  Still, everyone spends what time they can in the light, such as it is, for as long as it is.

They have not yet lost hope, here within the walls of Winterfell.  The dragons give them a sense of invincibility and even the Others cannot raise the ashes of the fallen to fight against the living.  There are not as many funeral pyres as there had been before Daenerys Targaryen arrived with her great, flying beasts.

But those great flying beasts need to be fed as do the tens of thousands packed behind Winterfell’s walls.  Fifty thousand Dothraki screamers and ten thousand Unsullied have dwindled to less than half that, due not only to the Others but to cold and disease and growing starvation.  Brienne herself is growing thin to the point of being mistaken for a wight herself, except her eyes are still their ordinary blue, the skin beneath her leather and furs is still warm, her blood still flows, her heart still beats in her chest.

And she is _afraid_ , so afraid, even with Oathkeeper flaming in her hand, even with Jaime beside her with Widow’s Wail a beacon of light and hope in his.  Over the last few days, or weeks, or mayhaps months, they have learned to fight together like well-trained dancers:  Widow’s Wail in Jaime’s left hand, Oathkeeper in her right, both blades burning in the darkness, only dimming when they slice through a wight or, on occasion, an Other, felling hundreds or thousands of wights at once, like trees tumbling before a mighty gale.

Later, once the wights have been pushed back yet again, they burn any remnants of their enemies that remain behind along with their own dead, and Brienne again blesses Daenerys and her remaining dragons.  At least they need not waste fuel on funeral pyres.  Winterfell is heated by the hot water that lurks beneath it, but they still need fire to cook what food they have.  They go further and further afield now, in search of both food and wood to keep the kitchens working.  They have stripped the godswood almost bare except for the weirwoods with their strange, unsettling faces, at the foot of which Bran can most often be found, looking almost dead himself.

Brienne shakes her head and rolls over, her back now to Jaime, who once again mutters a protest and shifts closer.  She listens to the snuffles and snores and the soft words being whispered around her.  She had her own private bedchamber once, as had Jaime, centuries ago or mayhaps only a few weeks or months.  Time no longer has any meaning and sometimes, as she lays in the darkness and listens to the soft night sounds of dozens of living humans crammed together in this small hall, she wonders if she only dreamed of the sun and summer, of the beaches of Tarth and its beautiful sapphire oceans that sparkled in the heat and the sunlight.  Are her memories nothing more than illusions she’s created to give herself hope there is something other than this cold hell, that they can win against the Others and the cold and the darkness?

Tarth and summer are long ago, if they ever existed at all, and there is now only this:  the Others and their wights, the dragons and flaming swords, the battle they’re in and the one to come.

The room is lit only by the last embers burning low in the fireplaces.  Someone coughs, others snore, some mutter fear-drenched words in their sleep.  Then she hears a woman’s soft laugh, a man’s low, amused voice, and the sound of kissing and the rustling of clothes.

The night is dark and full of terrors ... and loneliness.

Here, at the end of the world, where the living meets the dead, the morality of the day no longer seems important, no more real than her memories of Tarth and the heat of the sun warming the freckles on her shoulders.  People are finding comfort where they may, with whoever they can.  Comfort, warmth, and mayhaps a reminder that they, at least, are still _alive_ , unlike the revenants they face.

Jaime has no need to sleep next to Brienne every night.  He has more than enough women offering him a warm place to lay his head ... and anything else he wishes to include with it.  Brienne has seen them offer often enough, has heard them whispering in his ear in the Great Hall, or the halls, or the Throne Room, or the training yards.  Jaime simply smiles and sends them on their way and spends his nights next to her, huddled close, and at some point in the night, his maimed arm is flung over her waist, his breath tickling her ear.

They used to call her the Kingslayer’s Whore, centuries ago, when they first arrived at Winterfell and learned the Wall was in ruins and the dead on the march.  Even then, there was no heat in it, no condemnation although she once overheard a group of men, snickering as she walked by, praising Jaime for knowing enough to take the largest and ugliest woman he could find as his whore because at least she’s big enough to warm three beds at once, and she’ll always be available because even at the end of the world, she’s too ugly for anyone else to fuck.  That was before Oathkeeper burst into hot, bright flames in her hand, and Widow’s Wail did the same in Jaime’s.  No one mocks them anymore, all these years, or mayhaps only weeks, since those first days.

But it’s still the end of the world, she thinks, bleak and cold and almost desperately lonely even with Jaime as close as he can get to her through their boiled leather and breeches.  His nose is cold and pressed against the back of her neck and as he mutters in his sleep and snuffles closer, she tells herself again that she needs to find another place to sleep.  Some day, she’ll hide away in some alcove where she can keep warm and none can get close to her ... and then she’ll truly be alone, without even Jaime’s bulk pressed against her, warm and alive and comforting, even if he sometimes murmurs his sweet sister’s name in the night.

She shifts, her bones aching from the day’s battle and the cold and the hard floor softened little by the straw and blankets they sleep on.  Jaime stirs then subsides back into sleep.

Somewhere in the otherwise sleeping mass of bodies she hears the unmistakable sounds of fucking. Once, in a different age, a thousand years ago, such a thing would have sent her scurrying away, her cheeks flaming even hotter than Oathkeeper, and she would have hidden herself away from such things.

Now...

She shifts again, Jaime’s weight warm against her back.  He nuzzles the back of her neck, sending sparks shivering down her spine.

She finds herself filled with yearning, fighting the urge to turn, to edge her fingers into Jaime’s breeches, to take his cock in hand and see if what she’d been told centuries ago is true:  are all women truly the same in the dark?  He dreams of his sweet sister, whispers her name with a dark yearning that makes Brienne’s heart freeze from something even colder than what the Others and their wights carry with them.  Even so, even if his heart is back in King’s Landing, mayhaps here in the dark, at the end of the world, she might be able to persuade him, might even be able to pleasure him and receive some pleasure in return, no matter how inexperienced and awkward and ugly she is.

But she knows he would leave her in the grey light of day.  The only vows he ever kept before he met Brienne are the ones he made to Cersei.  If she, Brienne, persuaded him to break faith with Cersei, then his honor would demand he leave her alone in the dark, surrounded by the sounds of other people seeking their comforts where and when they may.

It’s the end of the world and she’s never been kissed, not truly.  And she’s certainly never been fucked.  And never will be if she insists on sharing her bedroll with Jaime every night.

Her lips quirk into a bitter half-smile.

She wonders which of them is protecting the other’s virtue.

Brienne lets out a soft, sad sigh as the couple, somewhere in the darkness, increase their fervor.

“Go to sleep, wench,” Jaime whispers, so softly she almost thinks she imagined it.  ”Day still comes far too early, even in endless night.”

She gives a slight nod and closes her eyes.

Jaime nuzzles closer, his stump rubbing a soothing circle on her belly.

Not helping, she thinks with a grimace.  Not that he would know.  Or care.

She stifles another sigh and silently recites passages from the Seven-Pointed Star until she finally, blessedly, falls asleep.

*/*/*/*/* 


	2. Day One: Jaime

***/*/*/*/***

She whispered Renly’s name again last night.

Deeply asleep, finally, warm and as relaxed as any of them can allow themselves to be, Jaime tugged her closer, hoping his arms helped her feel safe for at least one more night... and she whispered ‘Renly’ as sweet and soft as any other, daintier maid.

He slashes at Ilyn Payne and dances away from his sword.

As if Renly had ever held Brienne in his arms. As if Renly had ever cared for her at all. Jaime remembers Loras’ words, telling him the upstart would-be king considered Brienne a grotesque, a figure of mockery, a woman playing at being a knight. Yet he had kept her dangling solely because she was willing to die for him.  How would she feel about her sweet Renly if Jaime shared _that_ morsel of information with her?

He’s tempted.

He falls back beneath Payne’s onslaught and for a moment, it’s a near thing, his blunted tourney sword almost flying from his hand. He catches it at the last second and manages to hold his own for another short while before Payne finally knocks his sword away.

Jaime shakes his head with a rueful grimace as he walks after it. He’s better when he wields Widow’s Wail while it burns and glows like something out of the seven hells. The sword seems to swing itself then, when he’s standing against the Others and their wights, with Brienne clutching an equally bright Oathkeeper beside him. Together they have sent more of those ice monsters back to whatever spawned them than even the dragons, he thinks, and that makes him fiercely proud. Why he can’t seem to show the same skill with an ordinary steel sword is a mystery.

Or mayhaps magic.

The thought no longer seems so strange, just as their stand-off with the Others seems more normal with every day and night that passes.

He shakes his head and dismisses Payne. He needs to be alone.

He needs to think about what to do about Brienne.

She loves Renly. She will always love Renly. But that cursed boy is dead, long dead, centuries dead, it feels like, in this endless grey of day and the even more endless inky black of night, a night lit by blue stars that always turn out to be no stars at all. Renly’s dead and Jaime’s here, alive and aching for Brienne every night as they huddle together beneath their furs, listening to other people fuck.

Does she love a dead man enough to turn Jaime away if he were to whisper a question in her ear? Slide his hand beneath her breeches, between her legs, to tease the delicate flesh hidden there? Would she welcome his touch? Moan and writhe against him, or would she turn him away then tease him, make him ask her again and again until she has need of him for some task, or until she finally gives in to his pleading to keep him sweet?

Like Cersei.

The thought of his sweet sister dampens his ardor even more than the banks of snow in the training yard and the cold wind endlessly howling from the North.

His anger at Cersei’s betrayals has long since been frozen and shattered into as many shards as a wight. Their last meeting extinguished the last embers of passion and love he once felt for her, when she threatened to kill him with Ser Robert Strong standing monstrous and silent and waiting by her side, and Jaime finally accepted she would do nothing to help anyone other than herself even in the face of monsters from beyond the Wall.

Their last meeting extinguished everything, really, except memories tinged with the bittersweet question of how much had been real and how much had been Cersei using him for her own gain. With his anger gone, with the love and passion that once blinded him also gone, his memories feel like another world, as faint and murky as a dream he can barely recall and just as real. The children are gone, now, too, all of them, and so is the woman he once loved more than life itself. _The things I do for love_ , he thinks and shakes his head at his own wilfully blind stupidity. He allowed himself to think with his heart and not his head. His lips quirk into a bitter half-smile. Or allowed himself to think with the _wrong_ head, as Tyrion would be quick to point out.

He turns and half-heartedly swings his tourney sword at the straw-filled sparring dummy in the yard.

Cersei still controls all he does, at least in this.

He has no idea how to approach Brienne or what he wants from her other than a warm and willing body in the night.

He immediately rejects that thought.

It’s more than that. If all he wanted was someone to fuck, there are more than enough willing and able women who would join him beneath his furs, sweetly call his name, tell him they love him, and the next night, they would be in someone else’s bed telling them the same thing.

It would be no more real than the last twenty years of his life.

And they wouldn’t be Brienne, her soft heart securely hidden behind walls thick and strong, with her innocent eyes judging his actions and finding him wanting, or shining with approval and what he hopes is pride in him. And even after everything that happened to her before she came to him at Raventree, even after Stoneheart and all that followed between them, even after all that has happened that brought them to this point, here in Winterfell wielding flaming swords against enemies risen from the dead, she is still, at her core, the same idealistic Brienne he first met, when he was in chains, her prisoner, and had two hands.

He strikes again at the dummy, scowling, and reminds himself that Brienne is not the Maid and he is not the Warrior sworn to love and protect her. He’s lived that mistake his entire life and he will not make it again. She is not perched on an unassailable pedestal and he will not obey her every command with little thought or question.

That reminds him again of Cersei, clutching onto the Iron Throne while they fight endless battles in the North and die too quickly. When Jaime left King’s Landing all those decades ago, he thought he would never look upon his sweet sister’s face again, but now he knows he will. Or at least Brienne will. He hopes.

Because while most of the Northmen are yet too pig-stubborn to listen, Jaime knows their position here is unsustainable and getting worse by the day. Everyone knows but they refuse to admit it. Not for much longer, however. Soon they‘ll need to leave, or die, either by the hands of the wights, starvation, or in the dragons’ flames when the animals’ hunger finally grows greater than Daenerys’ control of them.

They will need to leave and when they do, they can only head south, with the dragons lighting the way ahead and behind them. And if they can lead the Others all the way to King‘s Landing, well, then they will have something that is just as powerful as the dragons.

Sometimes Jaime dreams of the wildfire beneath King’s Landing and sees his sister clinging to the Iron Throne while the green flames erupt around her. The dreams shatter his heart with grief, and he mourns for her, both as his sister and twin, and as the woman he had loved for most of his life. Those dreams remind him she is still his sister, still the mother of his children, still his twin. Whatever passion he felt for her may have been snuffed out like a flame in the wind but he still has no wish to see her dead.

Brienne strides into sight and he watches her for a moment, mesmerized by her long legs and admiring the confident way she greets their fellow warriors, her hand resting comfortably on Oathkeeper’s hilt.

Nor does he want to go to his death wondering what Brienne might have said if only he’d asked her.

She catches sight of him and while her homely face doesn’t quite smile, her scowl does ease somewhat.

Jaime grins.

She may still love Renly, he thinks as he goes to meet her, but Renly’s dead and _he’s_ very much alive…and he will find a way.

*/*/*/*/*


	3. Night Two:  Brienne

***/*/*/*/***

She dreams of Renly in her father’s Hall. The music is playing and they dance in semi-darkness while everyone around them stares and sniggers and makes japes that she feels but cannot hear.

None of it matters. She smiles at him, joy radiating from her more powerfully than the sun’s warming rays that drenched the Isle of Tarth these last few days, here at the height of summer. They twirl and dip and bow and skip, and she is as light as a feather and just as beautiful.

“Renly,” she sighs.

A part of her knows the faceless figures on the edges of the dance floor are weeping, knows the darkness that drapes over and between them is thick, woven from sadness and pain. She keeps her eyes on Renly’s and smiles, because for now, for this moment, in this light, she is young and innocent and in love.

_“Renly.”_

She smiles and smiles and smiles as they dance, her skirts for once twirling gracefully round her feet, making her feel as lovely as any other maid, a Beauty in truth, like Margaery Tyrell or Daenerys Targaryen or Cersei Lannister.

His smile turns mocking at the last, almost as mocking as his green eyes, and as the torches flare, the gold in his hair glints in the light of the flames. Beneath the mockery, however, there is something warm, growing warmer, heating the very air between them.

She mouth sags open with surprised recognition then her smile returns, widens, her heart soars, and she weeps from the joy of it. As they continue the dance, she feels something... _more_ , something deeper, a hunger twisting in her belly that is a mixture of red and blue, dark and light, happiness and pain. She hears the low chants of “Kingslayer’s Whore” and lewd laughter from the faceless figures watching them, there’s pain and grief living in the shadows that surround them, but it matters naught because for now, for _now_ , she’s still young and innocent and in--

“Brienne.”

She opens her eyes, frowning, uncertain if she heard her name in her dream or for true.

“Brienne,” Jaime whispers again and she lifts her head, listening, wondering if the horns are blowing, calling all to arms because the walls of Winterfell have finally been breached.

She hears nothing, however, and the squires and their women sprawled around them are quiet except for the odd snore and snuffled words that she cannot make out. Pod is nearby, small and still beneath his furs, and she stares hard at his tiny bundle until she’s sure she can see the rise and fall of his chest in the dark. She relaxes with relief. Brienne wishes she could send him south, away from the fighting and the wights and the dragons, but he will be no more safe there than he is here, by her side.

She rolls over and scowls a question at Jaime.

One he sees readily enough, for he smiles. “You were crying, wench,” he says, his tone light, but even in the semi-darkness of the small hall, she can see the edge of worry on his face and in his eyes, “and whispering the name of a man long dead.”

Was she? She touches her face, her fingers rough and calloused, catching against her skin, and they come back wet.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

He shrugs away her apology. “How many times have I woken you with my screams?” He stares intently into her eyes. “You still love him that much, to mourn so after all this time.”

It is not a question but she still opens her mouth to deny it or to qualify it, to tell him it is not Renly but the past Brienne for whom she mourns, that innocent fool, so blinded by infatuation she threw away her birthright and her duty just to name the boy as king, to beg to be placed in his kingsguard, to offer her life for his.

Yet if she had not...if she had not, she would not be here, now, beside _this_ man, beneath their furs in the quiet dark of night. Nor would she stand on a castle’s walls, wielding a flaming sword that protects the weak and the innocent from the monsters trying to gain entrance. She has finally found her purpose and she will always be grateful to Renly for that.

She closes her mouth, then murmurs, “It is not so simple.”

Jaime’s smile is bitter. “It never is.”

He wipes the moisture from her cheek with his stump and fresh tears spring to her eyes. Comfort being offered to her was rare and far between until she began sharing her bedroll with Jaime. He seems to need to give comfort as much as he needs to receive it some nights, yet it never fails to both move her and send her scurrying behind the walls she built years ago, even if he does not know it.

“Go back to sleep,” he says. “Tomorrow night will be our turn to once again stand watch on the walls.”

She nods, then stiffens as he pulls her a little closer and urges her head on to his shoulder. It is not the first time he has held her like this, his arms warm and comforting, a haven of safety, much like Winterfell itself.

And like Winterfell, it cannot endure.

But that is another day’s worries, she thinks. She closes her eyes and relaxes against him. She drifts back to sleep to the sound of Jaime’s beating heart, and if she dreams again, she does not remember it.

*/*/*/*/*


	4. Day Two:  Jaime

***/*/*/*/***

Jaime settles onto the sleeping pallet he shares with Brienne and tries to get comfortable.  It is now their turn to take third watch, walking the battlements beginning at midnight.  He and Brienne and their soldiers have finished eating and now they will try to sleep for the next several hours if they can.

Jaime rolls over and scowls at the empty space beside him.

Brienne is still out, no doubt walking with Sansa, the Hand of the King in the North, and Brienne mayhaps will join him when Sansa dismisses her.  Brienne does not always do so, however, before they begin their night patrols.  She seems to prefer finding a private niche somewhere before their watch begins, as if she is more embarrassed to sleep beside him during the day than she is during the night.

Still, he hopes she will arrive.  Even now, after all these years or mayhaps only weeks of sleeping close together, it is he who always joins her and never she who joins him.  Of course, she and most of their squires are usually abed long before he manages to extricate himself from Tyrion and the other Lords who have thrown in their lot with Winterfell.  She is most often deeply asleep by the time he creeps into the small hall, edging his way through their squires snoring around them like a pack of hounds circled about their lead dogs.

He sighs as he shifts and squirms, missing her bulk beside him more than he cares to admit.  He’s first in the small hall today, but he knows he won’t be alone for long, even if Brienne chooses to find another place to sleep.

It’s comforting, he admits, knowing they’re not alone even in sleep...although if he can ever tempt Brienne to agree to _more_ than sleep, he will need to find another place for such things.  She is a maid, and a lady, and if he does someday persuade her to give him her maidenhead, it should not be done within earshot of the men she must lead into battle the next day.  It’s different for women, no matter how unfair it is or how much it enrages him, but he heard her called Kingslayer’s Whore when they first arrived in Winterfell and that was before they moved to the small hall and once again began to sleep beneath the same furs.

Jaime rolls onto his side and forces himself to close his eyes and still his mind.  Whatever happens with Brienne is in the future and uncertain, but in this moment, he needs to rest even if he does not truly sleep.

*/*/*/*/*

“Fire is my champion.”

Jaime hears the voice as if from a great distance, and wishes he had never heard it at all.  He fills his head with thoughts of Cersei, clinging to images of the beautiful, golden girl who loves him with a fire that is cleaner and more pure than anything Aerys could ever dream of.  Jaime embraces those thoughts, those memories, those dreams, while the fire is kindled, the man screams, the son strangles himself.  As the sounds fill his ears and the stench fills his nostrils, he dives into the arms of his sweet sister...

...and falls onto the stone floor with a bone-jarring thump.

He sits up, blinking, and it’s blessedly silent, the odor of burning flesh growing faint, the screams a distant sound he can tell himself is nothing more than knights and squires sparring in the training yards.  Jaime looks around, and he is in Cersei’s childhood bedroom at Casterly Rock, and she’s there:  beautiful and glowing with youth, a child again, from the time when their love for each other was as unknowing and innocent as the games they played.  He looks up at her, his hair falling in his eyes, and she laughs down at him then turns, skirts swirling as she darts away and through a wide, jagged crack in her bedroom wall.  Jaime scrambles to his feet and gives chase, laughing in his turn.

He races after her into darkness, following until he can no longer see, the blackness absolute. He stops and calls her name and hears her laugh.  The sound is older now, cold, mocking, and he shivers.

“I can go no farther, sister,” he calls, “it is too dark.”

“You have followed me into greater darkness than this, brother,” she says, “and gladly.  It is too late for you to turn back now.”

Her voice is as cold and as dark as the space in which he stands, yet he still takes a stumbling step forward, then another, his hands outstretched and groping in front of him, feeling as blind as a newborn pup.

Light flares behind him and he turns.  A tall, broad woman with hair the color of straw and eyes of bottomless blue thrusts a torch into his hand and steps away, fading back into the shadows.

_Wait_ , he wants to say, _wait,_ but the word sticks in his throat.  This is not her place and there is no safety here for her if Cersei were to catch sight of her.  Still, he peers at the place where she disappeared, wondering, wanting, until, from the darkness behind him, drifts a single word: “Brother.”

Jaime turns towards Cersei’s voice, the torch in his hand flickering, causing shadows to leap and stretch and dance around him.  He goes in the direction of his sister’s voice, deeper into the darkness, and the floor beneath his feet slopes down and down and down until he steps from the corridor into a wider space, the air cool and damp against his skin.

He raises the torch higher.  The dark presses against him, heavy against his head, his chest, his shoulders, but he sees enough.  He knows this place.  He’s in the crypts of Casterly Rock, and—he takes several steps forward—in front of the tomb that cradles his father’s bones.

Jaime stands there, staring down at the carved granite likeness of the man he loved and hated and feared.

“The last time I was here,” Jaime says to the man who sleeps within that tomb, “you gave me a sword.”

“When the flames die,” Cersei whispers from somewhere in the gloom, “so must you.”

He spins, searching for his sweet sister’s form in the darkness that surrounds him.

“Cersei,” he sighs and for a moment the name tastes the same as it once did, when he was the Jaime of old, desperately in love with his dream of her, the woman he fled to when he needed to go away inside while Aerys tortured and burned his enemies and abused his wife.

But Cersei’s words have the same tone as the last time he saw her, when she threatened his life with Ser Robert Strong standing by her side, waiting for her command.  The memory sends a cold chill through him.

This is not the first time he’s had this dream since Oathkeeper burst into flame in Brienne’s hand, and then Widow’s Wail did the same in his, but he has not yet convinced his sweet sister to tell him more, to tell him enough to put his fears to rest, for there have always been _two_ flaming swords and while only his once flickered and began to die, he needs to _know_...he needs to be _sure_...

“Cersei,” he says again, keeping his tone sweet, besotted.  Mayhaps that is what will lure her out of the darkness, lure her into telling him more.

He sees movement from the corner of his eye and spins in time to see a shadow float away, deeper into the crypts.  He follows.

“Cersei,” he says, “ _please._ ”

Two swords had flamed in his dream, just as two swords flame now in life. Cersei’s warning had only come when both swords were aflame, and he needs to know if the prophecy is for him alone or if Brienne is to share his fate, and what he can do to prevent that.

“Cersei,” Jaime calls again, with as much yearning as he can muster, and thinks the shadow he’s following pauses.  He cautiously moves forward.  “Cersei,” he says and steps closer—

—and feels a shove against his shoulder and hears someone call his name.

He opens his eyes and blinks up at Brienne’s bright red face, her eyes avoiding his gaze.

He feels groggy, like he has had no rest at all, and he groans.  “Already?”

She shakes her head.  “We have several hours yet, but you were calling...” she stops and looks around them and Jaime realizes they’re still alone.  “You were calling for Cersei,” she hisses in a low whisper.

He bites back a laugh at her caution.  If there is anyone who once doubted the truth of his relationship with his sweet sister, they have learned of it in the centuries since.  More like, however, no one cares any longer, here in the endless cycle of cold and dark and grey light and battles.  Besides, his children are all gone now, Cersei holds the Iron Throne in her own right, and there is no one left to cry treason against a king who died lifetimes ago.

“Yes,” is all he says and shifts to give her room on their pallet.

She doesn’t move, staring instead at her hands, clenched together in her lap.  Large hands, Jaime notes, freckled, calloused, and warm, he knows, and gentle.

“What is it?” he asks.

She takes a deep breath and raises her remarkable eyes to meet his.  “Do you still love her so much?” she asks, her voice soft.  “So much that you still call for her, after all this time?”

He stares at her and wonders what he can say.  Magic is all around them, yet he still fears she will think him mad if he tells her that in his dreams he chases his sweet sister through the crypts of Casterly Rock, desperate to learn if the prophecy she repeats is for him alone.  He doesn’t even know if the dreams are naught but his worries made real, or a true warning of what is to come.

Jaime’s lips quirk into a half-smile.  “It is not that simple,” he says.

She stares unblinking then says, “It never is.”

“No.”  He gestures for her to join him.  “Several hours, still?”

She nods as she removes her boots then loosens her clothes and slips beneath their furs.  Their squires and their women straggle in as she does so, and Jaime hides a sigh.   _Never alone,_ he thinks, _and how can you tempt a woman as honorable as the Maid of Tarth if you’re never alone with her long enough to try?_

Brienne lies on her back, her eyes closed, her large hands clasped together and resting on her chest.

Jaime smiles again.

She looks like nothing so much as a young girl ordered to sleep who is doing her best to obey.

While the squires noisily settle into their bedrolls, Jaime leans close and whispers, “Are you still awake?” in Brienne’s ear.

Her brow creases into a frown.

“Go to sleep, Jaime,” she mutters, “or at least stay silent so I can rest.”

He props his head on his hand and grins.  “I haven’t seen you much at all today, wench.  Mayhaps I would prefer to look at your pretty eyes for a while longer.”

That makes her open those pretty eyes and glare at him.  “If you have gotten enough sleep before our watch tonight, then I will thank you to go find someone else to bother with your chatter, ser.”

He laughs.  “You have become even sharper of tongue since our arrival here,” he says and edges closer.  “I’ll let you sleep, Brienne, if you let me hold you while you do so.”

She snorts.  “As if I have ever managed to stop you.”

“You didn’t complain when we huddled together for warmth on the journey here.”

She snorts again.  “As I recall, I told you to return to King’s Landing if the cold bothered you so.”

“You shivered more than I did, wench.”

Brienne sits up and glares.  “I most certainly did not!”

All the squires stop what they’re doing and turn to stare at them, and Jaime bites back a laugh.

Brienne blushes as she lies back down and says, her voice a hoarse whisper, “Sleep close if you need to, Jaime, but for the gods’ sakes, do it _silently_!”

He chuckles as he moves closer, his maimed arm sliding across her waist until he has her snugged against him... or he’s snugged against her.  It doesn’t matter, truly, so long as she’s in his arms.

“I’ll sleep, my lady,” he purrs, “and will do so silently…so long as you promise to do the same.”

She stiffens then rolls her eyes before closing them with an exasperated sigh.  Jaime grins and settles his head close to hers.

He listens as her breathing slows and deepens, his eyes tracing each freckle on the cheek turned towards him.  Only when he is sure she is asleep, and peacefully so, does he allow his own eyes to close, and if he dreams again, he does not remember it.

*/*/*/*/*


	5. Night Three:  Jaime

**Night Three:  Jaime**

The night is quiet, windless, black as pitch with no moon, and time seems to be even more unmoving than it already feels.  The only way Jaime knows the night must actually be passing is through their slow, methodical pacing along the length of the battlements they’re guarding, Jaime in one direction, and Brienne in the other, before they reach their ends and turn, to pace back and pass again in the night.

Jaime pauses to exchange lighthearted words with the men and women under their command, who peer into the abyss between concrete teeth while stamping their feet and shivering in the cold.  He sends those who look the worst inside to warm themselves before they return to relieve their fellows.  Jaime knows Brienne is doing the same on her half of the battlements.  When he and Brienne meet again, they exchange updates about the state of their soldiers, who was sent to warm themselves by the fires inside, and who seems to need an encouraging word the most, then move past each other to see for themselves.

It’s as familiar now as the gold hand strapped to his right arm, as familiar as the feel of Widow’s Wail as it flashes and burns in his grip, as familiar as the glorious blue of Brienne’s eyes.  The only difference between now and yesterday is the fact that this time, they see only the night, and will only see a brief hour or two of daylight until they cycle into the next watch period a decade from now...or mayhaps it’s only a couple of weeks.

Jaime doesn’t mind any of it, not really, although he prefers the sweet clash of steel-on-steel to this pacing and waiting and wondering if that glint he sees on the horizon is starlight glancing off snow or the sharp, glittering eyes of a wight.

Tonight, however, the pacing and taking care of the people under his and Brienne’s command is peaceful and calming, at least so far.  It’s a respite, yet dangerous in its own way, leading those who hold the line into complacency that could prove fatal.  Tonight, however, Jaime welcomes it because it gives him time to _think_ , no matter how much he may wish to avoid it, and what he needs to think on is Brienne.

He knows it’s absurd to be so concerned with the personal when the fate of all men is more than a little uncertain, but Jaime has always put first the people he—

He shies away from that thought and turns his  mind again to Brienne.  She had been stiff and a unyielding against him this evening, until she finally relaxed into sleep.  He can not blame her, especially if he was murmuring Cersei’s name in his own dreams.  He can no longer deny that he has not been treating chivalrously with Brienne.  He longs to bed her, yes, and if she agrees, he intends to treat her sweetly and well...but Brienne is not one to give of herself so easily and when he is gone, what then?

His dream this evening was not the first he’s had of his sweet sister since his arrival in Winterfell.  Truth be told, he’s been having the dream ever since Widow’s Wail turned into flaming steel in his hand.

_When the flames die, so must you._ The words chill and confuse him, for there are two flaming swords.  _Two._

Jaime’s never been afraid to die.  He’s not afraid now, so long as he stays dead, something not certain with the Others and their wights somewhere in the darkness.  But Brienne deserves a better fate and if the swords only flame because of the Others, then their swords will cool once the Others have been pushed back into whatever cold hell spawned them.

_When the flames die, so must you._

Jaime can accept his own fate, mayhaps even welcome it, after all that has happened, after all he has done.  But he cannot accept Brienne’s.  _Never_ Brienne’s.

He exchanges a jest or two with a group of soldiers huddling together for warmth as they peer over the castle walls, then he moves on, his gaze on the blackness outside Winterfell, his mind on the big, lumbering wench who is somewhere behind him, doing the same.

If he must die when the Others are defeated, then he should do the honorable thing and distance himself from Brienne.  Sleep alone on a pallet of straw among their squires, step away from his desire for her, let his lust burn out, as Widow’s Wail is destined to do, and respect her enough to not leave her even more ruined in the eyes of the men they work and fight beside.  Not that anyone now believes she is still a maid although he doubts any will question her word to her face.  Still, to rescue what little remains of her reputation, Jaime should leave her alone beneath their furs and guide her towards one or another of the more acceptable heirs to the Houses who are fighting beside them, someone who is worthy of the Maid of Tarth.  Mayhaps coax them into a betrothal then wish her happy and dance at her wedding.

The thought brings such a ferocious scowl to his face that he startles the next group of soldiers and needs must spend several minutes soothing their fears, assuring them he was thinking of something else and he has not spotted the Others marching once again on Winterfell.

He successfully pushes his thoughts away for the next two patrols, his mind focused only on the blackness that presses in on them from every side and the well-being of his soldiers.  But the night is quiet and uneventful, and when he sees Brienne approaching, their fourth pass of the night, he steps to the battlements and stares out, unseeing, into the darkness.

Brienne fetches up beside him and they stand in silence, scanning what they can make out of the burnt and barren landscape, covered in a fresh fall of snow.

“I see nothing,” she finally says, her voice low.

Jaime’s mouth quirks into a half-smile and he turns to look at her.  She’s scowling, just like he expected, and he finds himself searching her face, tracing with his eyes what details he can see in the dim light of the stars and the faint glow of the bonfires that burn inside the castle.

“Nor I,” Jaime says, his voice pleasant.

Brienne jerks an awkward nod.

Even now, after all they’ve been through, after all the nights they’ve huddled together beneath their furs, after all these centuries patrolling these walls, Brienne is still uncomfortable with him.  It’s Lady Stoneheart, he knows, that make her uncertain, and all that happened when they confronted that poor mad revenant in the Riverlands, and after:  the Quiet Isle, recovering from their wounds, then King’s Landing and Cersei, their last days in that city of lies and liars, when he was removed from the Kingsguard but gifted Widow’s Wail by his son...the last time he saw his sweet sister and his children.

That was so long ago, he thinks, he can barely remember what his children looked like.

Brienne turns and looks at him, her eyes luminous in what little light brightens the night.  _Beautiful eyes_ , he thinks, _as beautiful as she is, despite the guilt she still feels about lying to me at Raventree._

_And when will I stop lying to myself?_ He abruptly turns away at the thought.  He remembers the rage he felt earlier, when he thought of making a match for Brienne, encouraging her to find a husband from among the multitude of wifeless lords huddled within the walls of Winterfell.

_Fool_ , he thinks, _as if any of us will live long enough to wed._

Their time at Winterfell is coming to an end.  They all can see it, they all know it.  When and how it ends is the only question.

“We cannot stay here much longer,” he murmurs.

“I know.”

They keep their voices low so as to not alarm the men and women under their command.

He looks at her again, his eyes roaming over her broad shoulders, made broader by her armor covered in thick fur, her gloved hand gripping Oathkeeper’s hilt, the scowl on her broad, scarred, homely face as she glares out into the dark, as if she can light the countryside by the heat of her determination alone.

_Or mayhaps we will live long enough_ , he thinks with dawning realization, _because if anyone is going to marry the wench, it’s going to be me._

*/*/*/*/*


	6. Day Three:  Brienne

***/*/*/*/***

Their watch remains uneventful, and Brienne yawns as she walks beside Jaime, following their soldiers to the Great Hall for a meal. It’s still dark outside although Sam, come to summon Jaime to speak with the Hands of the King and Queen, earnestly assures them it truly is morning, at least according to his calculations.

The Great Hall is filled with the men and women coming off third watch, and those on second watch breaking their fasts before beginning their day. The first day switching from first watch to third is always difficult. Brienne and Jaime and their soldiers will eat, then do their best to stay awake until it is time to sleep. Each day will become easier, and just when they have become used to it, they will change again to second watch. Until then, they will spend too much time in darkness.

She’s already missing the light, such as it is, and there is no hope for respite any time soon.

Mayhaps never.

Brienne finds an empty place at a table with Pod to her right. A serving girl hurries over with hard-crusted bread while another follows behind with the thin gruel that passes for breakfast once they have hollowed out their loaves. Still, Brienne thinks, as she grimly shovels her portion into her mouth, it’s food, and with their rapidly dwindling supplies she knows better than to quibble.

They are half-way through eating when Jaime steps over the bench and sits on the other side of her with a relieved sigh. She slides him a suspicious glance.  He had seemed oddly pensive during the night, then oddly... _something s_ he couldn’t quite identify, only that the expression in Jaime’s eyes every time he saw her had been... _unsettling_.  Jaime notices her scowl and gives her a grin as he busily hollows out his own loaf of bread.

“I don’t know why you’re scowling like that, wench. We survived another night and that must be something to smile about.”

Her scowl deepens, and he laughs.

“I suppose not,” he says with a shrug and gives the serving girl doling out his gruel a nod of thanks and a smile that causes that young woman to blush and bashfully bob her head in response.

“What did the Hands want?” Brienne asks, mayhaps a bit more sharply than needed.

Jaime grimaces and shakes his head. “Tyrion’s worried that our soldiers are being worn down by our constant vigilance and wants the Lord Commanders to consider new approaches to guarding the walls. Sansa’s most concerned with feeding everyone and with good reason. Even with the rebuilt glass gardens, there is not enough time for anything to grow and even if there were, we can’t grow enough to sustain the number of people here in Winterfell.”  His lips twist with distaste as he glares at his spoon full of gruel. “Mayhaps we should have thought to bring in rabbits and breed them.”

“Even rabbits need time to grow,” Brienne mutters.

He slides a glance at her, that same odd expression in his eyes she had seen during the night.

“As do other things,” he murmurs.

She frowns but before she can ask him what he means, if there is any hidden meaning in his words at all, Brandon the Younger calls for his attention from his other side to share a jest. Jaime laughs, turning to include her in his merriment as he replies with a jest of his own. Brienne allows herself some satisfaction at that. It’s taken long and longer for Jaime to win a measure of respect from these northmen, even if they still intend to take his head once the Others are defeated. They take great pleasure in reminding Jaime of that fact every chance they can. Jaime, in his turn, simply shrugs and laughs, and slaps the shoulder of whichever northman has made the threat, and tells him he’s welcome to try. The growing ease with which the Hands treat with him has helped as well, although Sansa and Tyrion are both understandably still wary even after Jaime has proven himself time and again in battle, flaming sword in hand.

Brienne sops up the last of her gruel with her bread and chews as she thoughtfully considers Brandon the Younger. About Jaime’s age, thin and sharp-featured, what skin she can see that isn’t covered by his beard is weather-beaten and rough from the cold and the wind. Heir to the clan chief of House Norrey, a mountain clan in the north, he’s handsome enough, she supposes, and the serving girls and women seem to agree if their smiles and blushes are any measure. He has no regular woman, so far as Brienne knows.

Walking the battlements gives her too much time to think. The Others have not been sighted in days, or mayhaps years, and the night just ended was more of the same. As she paced and spoke with her soldiers and Jaime, Brienne found her mind wandering to her thoughts of a few nights ago and her growing desire to turn to Jaime and beg him for something more than simply a body to keep her warm.

They began sharing a bedroll on their journey north for just that reason, a journey begun after Jaime was removed from the Kingsguard and Tommen, sweet, innocent, doomed Tommen, gifted him Widow’s Wail in recompense. Still, they were left with nothing but their swords and horses when Tommen banished them from the city, and Brienne still remembers the expression on Cersei’s face when Jaime simply bowed then turned his back and strode away from the Iron Throne without a word. Brienne had been certain Cersei would call him back at the last moment and she wonders how much it still hurts Jaime that his sweet sister let him go without a quibble.

_It hurts him a great deal, you great, bounding fool_ , she thinks, _or have you so quickly forgotten how he_ _still calls her name in his sleep?_

Her heart cracks at the memory of Jaime’s face as they left the Red Keep and then King’s Landing.

Despite her pity, Brienne does not know how much longer she can sleep beside him while he loves another woman in his dreams. She remembers her thoughts of a few nights ago, that if she doesn’t wish to die a maid, she needs must distance herself from Jaime and mayhaps find another man, one willing to relieve her of her maidenhead.  Things are desperate indeed if she, the Maid of Tarth, is even entertaining such thoughts, but that should mean there are some men desperate enough to accept even Brienne the Beauty warming their bed for a night or two. Mayhaps even this Brandon the Younger, if she could think of something to say that would persuade him.

_All women look the same in the dark._

Ser Hyle’s voice is so loud in her memory, she actually looks behind her, causing Jaime to lift a questioning eyebrow.

She scowls at him and turns her attention back to her now sadly empty trencher. It’s not that the gruel is so tasty, but her stomach is still empty and she would give much to be able to eat her fill once more.

She glances at Pod who is looking even more forlorn as he stares down at his empty plate, and she gestures for a serving girl to give him another portion.

He gives her a wide-eyed look that turns to a frown, but after all this time, he knows better than to argue with her.

She gives his shoulder a reassuring pat and stands.

Jaime looks up at her then gives her an absent nod, and she strides out of the Great Hall, wondering why she feels like she has demons from all seven hells nipping at her heels.

The night was calm, she tells herself as she makes her way to the training yards, blessedly so, but she still feels nervous, as if there is a looming danger around her she cannot see.  She picks up a tourney sword and taps an unlucky knight on the shoulder for some sparring.

As she clashes her blunted steel against his, she wishes she could bash Cersei from Jaime’s head and heart as easily.

_It’s not that simple,_ she thinks, _and even if Cersei no longer haunted his dreams, I would not be the one to take her place._

The next knight fares even worse than the first.

_Of course I cannot take her place_ , she thinks as she slashes and spins, parries and thrusts. _Jaime holds me in some regard, true, despite all that happened with Stoneheart and Cersei, else he would not huddle with me each night...but it is nothing near what I feel for him and never will be. I would do well to remember that._

She should never have asked him about Cersei. His answer has unsettled her and she should have known it would only cause her pain.

Brienne spars with a third warrior, some lesser son of one of the Skagos Houses, who battles her until she’s bruised and exhausted and soaked with sweat even in the cold.

Brienne finally knocks the man to the ground and he yields, and as she helps her opponent to his feet and sends him off with a word of thanks and encouragement, she thinks she can now present herself to Sansa with some semblance of calm.

Brienne grimaces.

Once she washes the sweat from her body, of course. Lady Sansa, even in these trying times, will not appreciate Brienne’s rank stench in the confines of her solar.

She hands the blunted sword to one of their squires and turns to see Jaime standing on the sidelines, his arms crossed, an indecipherable expression on his face.

She hesitates then strides towards him.

“You seemed as if you needed that release, my lady,” he says.

_‘Tis not the kind of release I’m craving,_ she thinks, and wonders if her cheeks will actually burst into flame. She fervently hopes Jaime will think she’s so red because of her sparring.

She wipes sweat from her brow and tries to make her shrug appear careless.

His eyes bore into hers, a version of that odd look she had seen during their watch on his face. She stares back at him, expressionless, and he seems to come to a decision.

“Come,” he says, “you should refresh yourself before we meet with Lady Sansa and Tyrion.” She must look surprised because he smiles. “I forgot to mention it to you. When I met with them, they also requested we both attend them in Lady Sansa’s solar.” He turns. “If we hurry, we will have the small hall to ourselves for a little while longer before the squires and their women arrive.  We should be able to wash ourselves in peace.”

_We._ She glances at the men around them. No one seems to hear his words, or mayhaps none care. And why should they? They are all doomed and there are no septons here to worry at anyone’s morality, and Brienne has seen no other god judging those who are taking what pleasures they may while they still can...or mayhaps the Others and the monsters they control are the gods’ vengeance against them all.

Jaime tilts his head in invitation and she falls into step beside him.

They walk in silence to the small hall, and there, in a room that was once a store room, Brienne strips down and washes the sweat from her body with the water that the squires fetch each day. Outside the door, she hears Jaime talking and laughing with the squires and their women as they straggle in and out of the hall. She hears the light laughter of women, the loud boasting of the squires as they divest themselves of what furs and armor they can before going about their day, the rustling of fur and straw as the women and squires clean their sleeping areas before leaving to go about their day.  They will all return in a few hours to sleep through the late afternoon and into the evening. Midnight, when they will all once again be pacing the ramparts, will arrive sooner than any of them would like.

Brienne yawns at the thought.  She is weary to her bones but if she sleeps now, she will wake too early and third watch is wearisome enough without being asleep on her feet as she watches for the Others.

Tomorrow will be easier when their watch ends. They will stay awake longer and do more before they return to the small hall for sleep, but the first night on third watch is always the worst. Brienne redresses, grimacing as her still sweat-dampened clothing clings to her skin. She would give almost anything to have a bedroom to herself so she could have a true bath and then sleep naked beneath blankets stuffed with feathers instead of in her breeches and gambeson and boiled leather under layers of furs.

_Even better if Jaime is naked with me,_ she thinks, and flushes, her skin prickling with sweat of another kind.

She curses herself for a fool as she finishes dressing then leaves the room, hoping Jaime won’t be able to read her thoughts in her face. She thanks the Seven that the Hands have need of her, else she’s like to drive herself mad.

*/*/*/*/*


	7. Day Three: Jaime

***/*/*/*/***

_What I need,_ Jaime thinks as he strides beside Brienne towards the Solar of the King’s Hand, _is a plan._

It was an easy enough goal when all he thought he wanted was simply to fuck Brienne.  Wedding her, however, is far different and will be a much more delicate dance to navigate.  If it was just fucking, well, she is getting more and more used to him sleeping beside her and Jaime has been waking lately to find her sprawled on top of him, one long leg flung across his, her hand resting over his heart.  Once she even nuzzled against his shoulder before she half-woke, realized what she was doing, and turned her back to him. 

_I should have kissed her then_ , he thinks with a rueful air, _and we would have been wed while there was still food enough for a wedding feast.  Mayhaps I am as great a fool as my sweet sister once called me._

Brienne is not indifferent to him, Jaime knows.  Her eyes betray her on occasion, and Brienne of Tarth is not one to suffer sharing her furs with anyone if she did not wish to do so.  He has no doubt she is fond of him.  She may still call for Renly in her sleep, but Renly is long dead and he, Jaime, is very much alive.  In the dark, Brienne would never notice his hair is gold instead of black, nor his eyes green instead of blue.

No, fucking would be easy enough.

Jaime slides a glance at Brienne’s jaw set in familiar stubborn lines, her hand clenched tight around Oathkeeper’s hilt, even here among allies if not quite friends.

Mayhaps _easy_ is not the correct word...

He struggles not to laugh, much like he did all night after his revelation on the battlements.  He doesn’t think he’s been this giddy since Catelyn Stark released him from that dank cell beneath Riverrun.  Then he had been drunk on sunlight and fresh air and dreams of Cersei and now he’s drunk on...

Jaime’s gaze lingers on Brienne’s flax-colored hair, still dark with sweat although combed and pulled into a loose knot at the back of her neck.  She realizes he’s staring and glowers at him as little Gawen Glover, under the watchful eye of his father, Robett, challenges them in his piping child’s voice.  Jaime and Brienne answer him as seriously as if he were a man grown, or old enough to hold a true sword, and, satisfied, he opens the door of the Lord’s Tower and allows them entry.

Jaime shares a smile with Brienne as they begin their ascent to the Solar of the King’s Hand that once belonged to Lady Catelyn, then finds his gaze riveted on what he can see of her long, well-muscled legs and the firm shape of her buttocks as she climbs the stairs in front of him.

_I_ _’_ _m not drunk on the sunlight captured in her hair,_ he thinks, _although I might be captured by the clear beauty of her eyes if she would but look at me with a little less suspicion more often...yet I am drunk on her presence, nonetheless._

He grins as Wylla Manderly flicks her cold eyes over them then opens the door to the solar to announce them.

_I_ _’_ _ve run mad_ , he thinks as they step inside, _and I cannot bring myself to care._

*/*/*/*/*

Tyrion, the Hand of the Queen, welcomes them with a mocking smile.  Sansa, the Hand of the King, and ever mindful of her courtesies, offers them each a small measure of what wine remains in Winterfell’s cellars.  As with many things in this new world, however, there is little time for pleasantries before the two Hands get straight to the point.

“The food situation is getting worse,” Sansa says, “as I am certain you are aware.”

“You would need to be a blind man not to be aware,” Jaime says, his voice dry.

“Although a blind man may still have his tongue to tell him the quality of the food he eats,” Tyrion says, “and definitely a belly to tell him it is still empty.”

Jaime raises an eyebrow and nods.  “Then there are none who do not know the food is of lesser quality and growing scarcer by the day.”

“Something must be done,” Sansa says with a quelling look at Tyrion.

Tyrion says, “Queen Daenerys has ordered a hunting party to head south in search of what food and supplies they can find.  She will fly on her dragons each day and bring back whatever the party finds.”

Jaime’s laugh is harsh.  “And how long is this hunting party expected to survive with no walls to hide behind?”

“King Jon has agreed to send a van of skilled warriors to guard them, led by you and Lady Brienne,” Sansa says, and Jaime’s stomach sinks.

“I will be honored, my lady,” Brienne immediately says.

_Of course you would,_ Jaime thinks and wishes he could either shake or kiss some sense into her.

“How long will this ranging be?” Jaime asks.

“As long as it takes,” Sansa says.

“And how far south must we go?”

“As far as a dragon can fly in a day,” Tyrion says, his smile making the scars on his face twist and dance, “so mayhaps Dorne.”

“At least we would be warm again,” Jaime says and Tyrion raises his wine in salute.

“When do we leave?” Brienne asks.

“In the morning,” Sansa says.  “That will allow you time to rest from your watch last night.”

“Have the soldiers been chosen?”

“Those are for you to decide,” Tyrion says.  “The King and Queen ask only that you take at least one person from each surviving House as well as from the Wildlings, Dothraki, and Unsullied.  There can be no question that this party is being sent to serve _all_ of us sheltered here in Winterfell.  We are in perilous times and cannot falter now.”

*/*/*/*/*

_Well_ , Jaime thinks as they leave the Solar of the King’s Hand, _wedding the wench will have to wait until_ _—_ _or if_ _—_ _we return._

Brienne’s looking happier than she has in days as she strides beside him, and he understands.  Being outside Winterfell, even if constantly under threat from the Others, cold and hungry and sleeping on the hard ground in the harsh air of the north, it is still better than doing nothing but stand and wait.

_Besides_ , _it will give me time to make a plan._

*/*/*/*/*


	8. Night Four:  Brienne

***/*/*/*/***

She dreams of Tarth, of hot sand between her toes and the warm sun heavy on her shoulders.  The water is sapphire blue, the ocean waves gentle and rolling.  She hears her name and turns to see her sweet brother Galladon, a man grown, tall and strong and handsome with their father’s look about him.

Her heart soars as he smiles and it shatters as he turns and walks into the sea even as she begs him not to go.

Behind him is the boy she was betrothed to when she was little more than a babe herself.  He smiles at her, his eyes kind and sad, before he, too, turns and disappears into the sea.

Next is Red Ronnet Connington, who sneers as he drops a blood red rose in the sand and leaves her there while he returns to Evenfall Hall, and then there is Ser Humphrey, with his demands for a dutiful wife.  He, too, follows Connington back to Evenfall Hall though by now he should be as dead as her brother and her first betrothed.

She hears her name again, called from behind her.  She turns and it’s Renly, and her love bursts from her, hotter than the rays of the sun in the sky.  He is so handsome, his smile so kind as he stretches out his hand to her.  She takes it and they dance on the beach while the air mutters mocking words.  She ignores it all and gives herself over to the moment, allowing herself to drown in his blue eyes, darker than the ocean that claimed her brother, and therefore more beautiful.  She is far more graceful than she has ever been in the waking world and she twirls and dips and skips without missing a step on the shifting sands while the music swells and swirls around them like the breeze even as the voices grow louder.

She ignores them as she delicately places her hand on top of his gold one, a hand that shines almost as brightly as his hair, and when she lifts her eyes to his, he smiles, teasing, fond, dangerous, and his eyes are as green as the leaves in spring.

She smiles, radiant, soaring, and _feels_...

The mocking voices grow ever louder, but he pays them no heed as he lowers his head to hers and the music rises to a crescendo—

—and Brienne wakes with a start, both she and Jaime rolling to their feet out from beneath their makeshift tent, moving in one smooth motion, swords in hand.

Even as she meets the rush of a wight, Oathkeeper singing and flaring in her hand, it takes her a moment to understand she’s in the North, shivering in the cold dark of night, and not on a hot, sunny beach in Tarth.  But Jaime is beside her, his gold hand flashing in the glow of the dying fire, Widow’s Wail flaming in its turn, and that warms her.

The battle is over almost as soon as it begins, their Valyrian steel blades and their companions’ dragonglass making short work of the small number of wights sent to harry them.  Even as the last one falls, Brienne worries again at the problem.

There is something wrong.

She and Jaime exchange a glance then, without saying a word, separate to check on the men and women sent with them on this desperate quest for food.  It’s been almost a moon’s turn now that they’ve been ranging south with little to show for it.  The Others have hounded their every step, it seems...but there are never enough wights sent to overwhelm them, only enough to keep them moving.

South.  Always south.

She rejoins Jaime by the camp’s central fire that is once again burning hot and strong.  They silently watch as several of their companions drag the fallen wights to the pit and throw them into the flames.  If anyone is saying prayers for the lost souls, they’re doing so silently.

“None of mine were taken tonight,” Jaime says, keeping his voice low.

“Nor mine,” Brienne says.

Jaime sighs with relief.  “Thank the gods.  If there are any.”

Brienne grimaces but doesn’t reply.  Her trust in the Seven has been as tested as anyone’s in these dark days.

They stand together, their shoulders brushing, and watch the fire for several more minutes before they exchange a glance and, in unspoken agreement, take their leave of their companions to return to their sleeping pallet.

It’s their turn to sleep in the cold, some of their furs draped over short sticks to provide what shelter they can against the elements while Jaime and Brienne huddle close together beneath the rest, hoping for what little body heat escapes their boiled leather to warm them both.  Their ragtag group of hunters have been sharing what tents are left after their first week ended with half their camp ablaze and almost overrun with wights.  The remaining tents are not large enough to shelter all of them each night so they rotate who sleeps within them as much as they can.  While Queen Daenerys has been bringing them what supplies Winterfell can spare, that is little enough and those back in the castle have scarce resources with which to make replacements.

Food is not the only thing growing thin.

Brienne crawls, shivering, beneath their furs and presses as close to Jaime as their boiled leather armor allows.  The furs have grown frigid and seem to provide no warmth at all until their own heat warms them.

Brienne waits until the noises of the camp subside into silence before she whispers, “Tomorrow, let us ride away from the rest for a few moments.”

Jaime lifts his head in the semi-darkness and smirks at her.  “My lady, what are you suggesting?”

She smacks his arm, although part of her is grateful for the heat of her blush for it helps drive away the constant cold, even if only for a moment.

“I am suggesting we need to talk about the Others,” she snaps.

“Oh, aye,” Jaime says and for a moment, Brienne imagines he sounds almost disappointed.  He sighs.  “I agree.  Let us bring up the rear tomorrow so we can talk in peace.”

“Or at least privacy,” Brienne mutters as feet crunch on the snow and frozen mud outside their tiny cocoon, “else we could have this conversation tonight.”

Jaime chuckles.  “You are the one who insisted on giving up our tent, against my objections.  ’Tis not my fault you are such a stubborn wench.”

“If you would not provoke me—”

Jaime buries his face against her fur-clad shoulder and laughs, his own shoulders shaking from his mirth.  When he lifts his head to laugh down at her, she gives him a glare she hopes will level him.

Instead, he simply grins although his smile slowly dims as his eyes rove over her face, lingering on the scar left by Biter’s teeth.  The world outside the thin walls of their makeshift tent fades away as she watches him, trying to decipher what she can see of his expression.  His face is a study in light and dark, shadows and flame, and Brienne is suddenly very aware that they are pressed together beneath their cocoon of furs and that they are, in all the ways that matter, completely alone.

Brienne finds she cannot tear her gaze away from his as he says, “I am glad you have not changed, Brienne, even after all you’ve experienced and all we are facing.”

Brienne frowns, testing his words for some hidden meaning, some cruel jest.  Despite all the time they’ve spent together and all they’ve been through, she still cannot bring herself to trust completely.

His smile slowly returns.  “You still easily rise to the bait when I tease you.”

She rolls her eyes and shakes her head.  He chuckles, his eyes warm even in the semi-darkness, and Brienne stills, once again painfully aware that they have more privacy than they’ve had in centuries or mayhaps only weeks.  He’s here, and close, and—her eyes drop to his mouth—all she has to do is lift herself up and press her lips to his.

_You’re a fool._

The thought pulls her up short and she leans as far away from him as their close quarters allow, and he frowns.

 _He would not welcome such a thing_ , she thinks.  _He whispered Cersei’s name again last night._

“And you still take far too much pleasure in your teasing,” she says with as much lightness as she can muster.

Jaime’s grin returns, wicked this time, but all he says is, “Do you blame me?  We have so few pleasures left, would you deny me such a small thing?”

Despite herself, she softens, but all she does is sigh and shake her head.  “Go to sleep, Jaime.  The Others may return again before dawn, and we have another long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

*/*/*/*/*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My muses are showing faint signs of life although not enough to come up with a new title for this fic and/or a new summary. Yet. ;D All I do know is plot is happening and forty days (and nights) is probably far more than will make their way into this fic.
> 
> *sigh*


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